


Ink and stars

by Askell



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Adult Damian Wayne, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Banter, Complex relationships, Consent, Consent is Sexy, Distrust, Falling In Love, Family Drama, Family Feels, Family Issues, Feelings, Headcanon, Healing, Jason is tired, M/M, References to Depression, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Stopping A Wedding - the AU, Tattoos, Weddings, a lot of sexual tension, androgynous damian, art student damian wayne, damian is as gay as he's dangerous, family to strangers, henna tattoo, men are bad at them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 20:50:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20032153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askell/pseuds/Askell
Summary: Bruce and Talia are getting married. Some oppose it, some want to believe they're finally both at peace with each other, after thirty years of conflict. Damian, having shed his baby feathers at last, is convinced there's foul play at work. Caught in the middle of a drama he no longer considers his, Jason is forced to do damage control.What if... she was being honest?





	Ink and stars

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo this is another WIP which has been unfairly rotting in my folders for months and I'm so glad I got my hands on it once again! 
> 
> I've got so many feelings tied to this story and I wrote it when I wasn't at my best. I wouldn't call it self-indulgent, but it's definitely something I wrote to transform my feelings into something enjoyable. I hope it can also spark joy for you, as the youths say.

Jason paced slowly around the airport. He dragged his feet on the same faded carpets, passed in front of the same tourist shops, gazed up at the same glass-and-steel structures as he would have in any other country. Like everywhere else, it didn’t smell much of anything besides a hint of the expensive perfumes which were sold duty-free, and detergent. Five hours stuck in Kansai International and he had been bored for a grand total of twenty-five minutes. 

He kept walking, observing without any real care the flows of travelers calmly rushing to their gates, or impatiently waiting like him. Officially, ‘Jakob Levinsky’ was a German CEO coming back from an important seminar on East-Asia marketing, or something. If needed, he would impersonate Drake and string together some bullshit lingo until he persuaded his audience that he really was as rich and powerful as his suit suggested. 

Unofficially, Red Hood had been visiting one of his old masters to bring her to Interpol. In truth, Naoko Asakusa, aka Pyon-chan, was all but old. At thirty-two, she looked barely sixteen and talked as if she was ten. 

Her Harajuku den was one of those modern temples dedicated to kawaiiness one only thought existed in documentaries. Overwhelmed by the lace and glitter, the teenager Jason used to be didn’t even think of protesting as Talia left. Never before in his life had he seen so many different hair clips, petticoats (nor did he know what those where), and phone jewels. As any eccentric idol, Pyon-chan also kept a bright pink pet axolotl which sat immobile most of the day on his Hello Kitty tank, in his tank. 

Covered in pins, jewels and strass, the authentic Muramasa blade had been so perfectly camouflaged that, for the longest time, Jason had thought his apprenticeship a cruel joke. Following her and her band of frilly acolytes all around Japan had been quite the experience indeed, but not the one he expected. He had learned makeup and crossdressing from the best Queens, how to extort information as a host, and of course good old money laundering. But nothing martial.

Sitting as elegantly as his role demanded, Jason blew on his matcha. Nothing comparable to the pricey blends Pyon-chan bought and brewed herself, which was the only sign betraying her original education. Had he known better at the time, he would have also noticed she carried herself in a kimono like many only dreamed to achieve, or the perfection of her calligraphy, when she traded neon glitter pens for a pencil. At nineteen, he had mostly been torn between raging at her extravagance and fighting one of the most troubling crushes of his life.

Pyon-chan had hated his anger. As long as he would burst, she would treat him like her own personal servant and make him accomplish the weirdest tasks. He had had to hunt down special edition figurines one could only find on the Japanese dark web, in obscure native hackers language who created their own language based on anime references. He had stayed up in a queue for more than four days to obtain her collector surprise bags. Then she sent him to steal the national treasure, and bring it back when she judged it too ugly to fit in her collection. Months, spent running around like a mad mouse, until she finally deemed him exhausted enough to learn the way of the samurai. Via arcade games.

Nothing compared to the way she taught, in a deceitfully playful and appearingly pointless fashion. Uninterested in the actual philosophy of it -which, he understood later, was her family’s- Pyon-chan made him the weapon master he was. It also explained why Tim had never been able to beat his record in Dance Dance Revolution. 

_Kira Kira Samurai_, Naoko’s world-famous band, was composed almost entirely of assassins. Pyon-chan herself was only a former assassin. Their second specialty, besides complex choreographies, infinite patience displayed during handshake events and admirable balance in 18-inches heels, laid in intelligence gathering. Which made their arrestation both sad and hilarious, as Jason had helped to take them in for tax evasion. 

Her soulmark painted bright orange across her cheekbones like freckles had been wet with tears when the police got her. Not because of the arrestation, which was planned, but because her favorite drama had been cancelled that day. Cuffed hands grasping at Jason’s collar, she had made him swear to take care of her collections under the thundering flashes of several hundred journalists and passerbys. He had been wearing a wig and colored contacts to look even more stereotypically like an American detective, but the unscripted kiss they shared had felt somehow real. 

Checking his ridiculously expensive watch -Dick’s ridiculously expensive watch, which he pickpocketed a few years ago-, Jason tore his mind away from soulmarks and kisses. Getting closer each month to the fated age of thirty, he knew his situation was less than optimal. Most people met their soulmates in college, going through the mandatory international exchanges and humanitarian expeditions to find the One. Too bad he’d been dead at the moment and missed the whole shebang. 

His phone vibrated in his pocket. A big, bulky black thing, almost impossible to destroy or fit in a pocket. A stylized red bird flashed on the dirty screen.

“Timothy,” he greeted formally, though a grin spread on his cheeks as he imaged Drake roll his eyes. “What do I owe you the pleasure?”

“Do you ever check the family feed?” grunted Tim.

“Nope. I’m not on the Whatsapp group either-”

“Check your fucking emails for once!” he yelled, forcing Jason to put the phone away from his ear, then forced a breath out and started again in a calmer voice. “Sorry I’m just- check it. It’s important.”

“Anyone hurt?” asked Jason as he opened the muted family feed to read the important news. 

Pictures of Dick getting promoted in his day job, an exhausted Bruce taking a nap in the living room, a zoom on the big cat happily curled in his lap, a blurry photo of Alfred with flour all over his face… he scrolled faster, avoiding the expected vomitive happiness. Dick posted the most, closely followed by Stephanie and Tim. Cass, Duke and Damian rarely did anything but send obscure memes the others pretended to understand. Yet, Jason still heard Tim’s quick breath in his ear, warranting something which might actually be relevant.

“Oh fucking hell.” He saw it. “Tell me they’re joking.”

“They’re not. They’re fucking not and I- I’m-”

“Don’t panic, it’s stressing me out.”

“Fuck you. You’re a fucking asshole and I hate all of you,” spat Drake, fighting back what sounded like a real panic attack. “I got you (he had to stop to rein in his breathing) plane tickets, use them and pick up Damian. Drake out.”  
Just like that, the conversation ended. 

Jason stared at the picture spread on his phone like a personal insult. A creamy white square of paper, thick and expensive. The elegant script announced a wedding they were all invited to. Bruce Wayne, and his beloved… Talia al-Ghul. The phone bounced on the wall against which Jason threw it. 

Compared to Japan, the US were both insanely busy and frustratingly empty. As Jason drove along the coast, heading towards Harvard, he thought about the mess he was willingly getting in. It had been years since the last time he spoke to his family, with a few exceptions for work or when loneliness creeped deep enough in his chest to ask Dick to patrol together, when he was nearby. Damian however, was in his life little more than a contact in his phone these days. 

Stepping outside of his car in the icy New England winter, Jason regretted not having told Tim off. Back in his favorite civilian clothes, Jason was thankful for the thickness of his leather jacket, but had nothing else than dark jeans to protect his legs. The demon brat was nowhere in sight, so far. He wouldn’t wait more than five minutes in this weather, after that the kid was on his own. 

A man walked to him, dressed like the other students in generic warm clothes with heavy winter boots. His hair was a mess, but a tasteful one like artists have. There were paint splatters on his thighs, as if he wiped his hands without thinking. The massive green pocket he was struggling with hid most of his face, threatened to spill thick piles of paper. Seeing him trip, Jason surged forward to help. He caught most of the art supplies, coming comically close to headbutting the student. 

“Thank you man,” he started, before stopping right in his tracks, his deep green eyes piercing holes through Jason’s face. His tone instantly grew colder, distant, as he swiftly gathered all his belongings and increased the distance between them. “I see you have come as expected. Let us not make the family wait.”

“Hello to you too, demon brat. I’m good, thanks for asking.”

Already sat in the passenger’s seat, Damian stared outside the window obstinately. Anyone else might have believed he was either cold, or simply tired, but Jason read the anxiety all over his body. It was hard to believe the young adult with the laid-back clothing and loose hair had anything to do with the martial child that had been claiming the Wayne name and legacy a decade ago.

Turning the radio down, Jason attempted to make conversation in spite of Damian’s lack of responsiveness.

“So, how old are you right now? I didn’t know you were in college.”

“Twenty-three.”  
“You’re studying arts I gather?”

“I am.”

After a while, he abandoned and turned the radio back up. The charade continued until Jason started to recognize the scenery around them. Hesitantly, Damian reached out for the volume button and turned the radio off. Jason waited for him to speak, understanding that whatever it was meant something to the kid. Not so much of a kid anymore, either.

“Have you come to stop them?”

Jason licked his lips reflexively, thumbing the steering wheel as he ordered his thoughts.

“Your father and your mother are soulmates, and they’re both old now. There’s a hope they will retire after that.”

“Answer me,” demanded Damian in this now deep voice of his, which still retained some of the princely attitude he surrounded himself in as a child.

“I don’t know yet. At first I thought I would, but I’m barely a member of this family anymore,” he answered truthfully. 

“Talia cannot be trusted. Surely this is a plot of hers to get me back.” Damian’s tone had dropped to half a whisper on the last word, which made Jason wonder how much exactly happened.

“Bruce is what, sixty now? Fifty-five at least. In this line of job we’re not even supposed to live that long, trust the guy who didn’t. Talia isn’t much younger, my guess is they’re genuinely worried they don’t have much more time to enjoy their bond. But you’re right, she can’t be trusted. Which is why I agreed to come.”

He saw Damian nod in the corner of his eye, then reach out to put the music on again. The conversation was over. Jason hadn’t missed the block of black ink circling his forearm in censorship. A thin line of scar tissue now desecrated its monolithic gloom, close enough to the wrist to make Jason imagine the worst, though it was probably just a patrol incident. Observing Damian’s face during their first stop, that closed off and worried face which had lost all of its baby fat to delicate traits, the student in his car was practically a stranger. 

Damian produced a cigarette between his lips and fumbled with his lighter, cursing under his breath. Intricate orange lines covered his right hand, framing his thin fingers in flowery arabesques. Taking pity on him, Jason approached and flicked on his zippo. After a small hesitation, Damian accepted the intrusion in his personal space to the point of covering Jason’s hand with his to shield the flame from the wind. His skin was cold and dry, faint colorful specs not completely erased from his knuckles. He smelled like chemical paint, clay, and a green-scented cologne. 

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

“Be glad it’s only tobacco then,” Damian smirked a little, exhaling a long white plume of smoke on the side. “Grayson would skin me alive if he knew.”

“Don’t worry about Boy Wonder, I won’t snitch.”

“How pleasant of you.” He stayed silent for a while, observing the nondescript gas station, before ditching his smoke and killing it with his sole. “I need to change to more appropriate clothing, I will be back.”

Just like that, he grabbed a bag in the car and disappeared for a few minutes. Fighting the urge to smoke as well, his reluctant driver waited, passing his frustration on a twig he picked up. When he had managed to tear off all the bark and was starting to idly shave the naked wood with his pocket knife, Damian reappeared. 

“Now that’s more like you,” Jason snorted, eyeing the pricy suit. 

He didn’t miss when the younger bat murmured it really was not. The change wasn’t simply about slicked back hair and leather gloves hiding his hands. His back was straighter, his expression more carefully poised -and apparently he had been wearing mascara before. Damian the art student had faded, replaced with Damian Wayne-al Ghul, heir of two worlds. 

“When you are finished staring at me most rudely, it might be wise to start the car. I do not intend to reach Wayne manor before nightfall,” he commented in a disdainful, bratty way.

They arrived right as the polluted Gotham skies turned darker, even though it was only mid-afternoon. Jason tried not to dwell too long on how achingly familiar the old manor was. A thick coat of snow covered most of the elegant mansion, aside from a single path a charitable soul had shoveled. If the rigidity of his passenger indicated anything, Jason wasn’t the only one with a cold pit in his stomach. Aside from Dick’s police cruiser, Tim’s signature bike and a bright purple Tesla he guessed was Stephanie’s, he couldn’t guess who else they would find inside. 

“Come on baby bat,” he said despite not moving from his seat either. 

“Cease calling me that, I am hardly a child anymore.”

Both men stayed seated, looking through the windshield at the slowly drifting snowflakes. The tall windows of the manor were casting golden hues outside, sometimes disrupted by a figure or two whose blurry shadows danced behind the curtains. Night fell on the world in a great solemn silence.

“Come on,” Jason repeated, reaching out to Damian’s sleeve both to shake him and for support. “They’re waiting for us.”

“I do not believe in that soulmate story,” Damian blurted. “It is too convenient. We also believed Selina could be Father’s soulmate, and yet nothing came out of that relationship.”

He didn’t make any move to get rid of his brother’s hand on his forearm. If anything, he leaned into it, which prompted Jason to get it back in his own pocket.

“She was like, your best friend. I wouldn’t call that nothing. Given time, she would have made you her own pet bat.”

“You may be joking, she would have.” A discreet smile stretched his lips. “But I do not think she was his soulmate. Truth be told, my investigations pointed at Kent senior.”

Jason snorted loudly, had to hide his face in his palm. 

“Warn a bro before you lay one like this, jeez. Oh fuck, Clark and Bruce? I had no idea you could make jokes, baby bat,” he kept laughing, observing Damian get a little redder in the cheeks as he made a dismissive hand gesture.

“It was a simple theory. Wonder Woman was also a candidate.”

“So is the literal concept of Justice.”

“Fuck you,” Damian grunted, even though he looked more amused than annoyed. “Being without a soulmate at the ripe age of forty, do you really have any qualms to mock him?”

“First of all, you little jerk,” he punched his brother’s shoulder hard enough to make him regret his words. “I know perfectly well who my soulmate is. And second, I’m twenty-nine thank you very much.”

“Shall I help you venerable ancestor out of the car then?” he smirked, rubbing his arm and dodging a second blow by opening his door and slipping out.

They exchanged other quips as they took their bags and walked to the imposing doors. Both knew they were simply filling the silence to avoid thinking about the implications of their presence. Then the door all but bursted open, pouring bright golden light all over their suits. Then a heavy black shape hit Damian full-speed with a loud bark as Jason was swiped from his feet -a most impressive deed- by small arms crushing his waist. M’ari barely reached his ribs and yet she was already able to supplex him. Her father wasn’t long behind, wrapping his arms around a hopeless Jason who had to accept his fate. 

“Lemme breathe!” he tried to protest, nose filled with his elder brother’s annoyingly sweet cologne. 

“Uncle Jay!” M’ari yelled simultaneously. “It’s been so long!”

“She’s right Little Wing, oh my gosh I missed you two so much,” Dick added, face buried in Jason’s neck. 

Feeling his warm breath on the bare skin of his pulsing jugular, Jason’s cheeks heat up at the proximity. Accaparated with two Great Danes enthusiastically licking his face, Damian wasn’t any help either. He almost collapsed when Alfred the cat Jr. joined the frantic party by slithering between his legs. Then, the youngest Robin produced a genuine laugh, which stopped both of his elders right in their tracks. Under their gazes, his face took less open-hearted expression, more appropriate, but faker. A genuine spark remained lit in the depths of his deep-green eyes, which shone with the hues of an obsidian in the dying embers of the winter sun. 

“It’s freezing here,” Dick said putting some distance between his daughter and his brother. “Let’s come inside, everyone is expecting you.”

Taken up in the whirlwind that was little M’ari, Jason missed the way Damian hesitated a moment before pulling Dick in a quick, one-armed hug. A hug like men in America were expected to give. An accolade, more than anything. Less than everything he wanted to give. As far as the Bat children had drifted apart from each other and grown their own feathers, their reunion was one cacophony of “missed you” and “still alive?”, which all more or less meant “never leave me without news for so long ever again”. Not that anyone but now-bearded Dick Grayson would actively say it aloud. 

In the midst of the chirping, sharp-dressed young adults and one little girl, three figures were distinctly absent. Of dear departed Alfred remained a flattering portrait on the lintel none missed to salute. Bruce and Talia however, were nowhere to be seen. 

“They will join us for diner,” assured Tim, smoothing back his jet-black hair, his wedding band casting a small spark as he did so. “You know how they like a dramatic entrance.”

“Says the man who had to be kidnapped during the birth of his niece.”

“Oh shut up will you Steph, it was just one time,” he retorted without heat.

“You were absent,” remarked Cass, signing above the candy bowl she hoarded, her soft voice accompanying the words. “Kory was sad.”

“I was, you broke my heart Timmy.”

Laughters echoed as the women kept bothering a more and more flustered Tim, jabbing at his ribs and pinching his cheeks like sisters do. The champagne honored their hosts, as well as the food even though it didn’t compare to Alfred’s masterpieces. Bruce and Talia didn’t make an appearance. If they had, they wouldn’t have missed the way Duke almost toppled the christmas tree trying to avoid M’ari’s game of tag, nor the booing noises they made at Dick and Kory as they kissed under the missile-toe (courtesy of Tim). 

Later that night, Damian excused himself out, followed by Stephanie and Ace. Through the window, Jason could see the now sharp line of his jaw accentuated by deep shadows, the way his lips stretched to accommodate both speaking and smoking. His hands were still gloved, probably to hide the henna and the ink he hadn’t managed to scrape from under his nails. They moved swiftly, emphasizing his words in broad gestures. Jason thought of the years their youngest spent traveling on foot across Europe and Asia, not on a mission but to seek something only he knew. He hadn’t even known Damian was back in the USA until Tim’s phone call.

“Little- I told him to stop that,” Dick growled from the couch where he was cradling his sleepy daughter, eyeing the dancing orange dot of the cigarette. “It’s going to kill him one day!”

Having rolled his sleeves, a myriad of small spots were visible coursing on the tan skin of his right-hand arm. His soulmark, unique and cryptic. They all were. Some people liked to imagine they represented constellations, to compare them with birth charts and maps of the sky. Others pretended they represented crystal structures, alien alphabets, gifts from the faes. Supposedly, true soulmates harbored the exact same patterns, though it was rarer than unpolluted water. To Jason, they were simply tacky moles. 

“Baby bat turned into quite the rebel, didn’t he?”

“As far as I’m concerned he’s still an asshole,” Tim piped in, eyes focused on whatever game he was playing on his phone. Or perhaps he was hacking whatever company had crossed Wayne Enterprise. Or simply texting his husband. With him it was hard to say.

“Don’t swear in front of my niece Timmy. You already missed her birth.”

“Oh come on!”

The three of them kept chatting idly, the roaring chimney lulling their bodies to a pleasant heaviness. At some point Damian all but collapsed on the couch as well, smelling like cold weather and tobacco. Whether the alcohol or the late hour were at blame, he seemed to have forgotten all sense of circumstance as he sprawled his long legs across Dick’s lap and rested his back against Jason’s shoulders, closing his eyes in slow blinks like a purring cat. His soft, messy curls tickled Jason’s cheek but he couldn’t find it in himself to complain. Arms crossed on his chest, breathing slowly, he shifted a bit before finding the most optimal posture, which included forcing Jason to wrap his own arm around him and Dick to excuse himself for the night, annoyed by the accidental kicks.

As their eldest brother rose up, M’ari curled against his chest like a koala, a firelit silence fell over the room. Cassandra had been reading in a corner the whole time, Stephanie on her phone next to her. Jason allowed himself to relax as well, his hand trapped under Damian’s pointy elbow. When the younger man spoke, his sleep-deep voice buzzed inside of Jason’s chest as well.

“Coming here did not turn out nearly as catastrophic as expected.”

“Had I known all it took to stop you from hissing like a wet kitten was a hug, I would’ve gotten Dick to do it before,” he retorted with a falsely accusatory tone.

“That man pulled me against his breast more often than a mother her infant,” he chuckled, moving around again to get his gloves off, not expecting his parents anymore at that point. “One could argue it did have an impact on my overall character, that I can concede.”

“In a fleeting moment,” Jason said mimicking Damian’s mannerisms. “I was worried you’d changed. Turns out it was for naught.”

“I could choose to speak like an uneducated fool and lower myself to use common slang, but it turns out I have class.”

Not too pleased with Jason’s loud snort, the younger man pinched his brother’s arm in the mean and painful way little brothers are entitled to do. Which got him a fair amount of headlock and some hair-ruffling. Damian maintaining Jason’s thighs down with his own legs to tickle his ribs, he was unable to duck the elbow more or less accidentally aimed at his chin. Their battle cries got loud enough to cover the elegant throat-clearing above their heads. 

“Boys,” Talia’s deep, sensual voice echoed when it seemed they were both too preoccupied to notice her. “A bit of self-respect, please.”

Lightning-fast, Damian graciously got up, slipping his gloves on and smoothing his hair back. A mask of studied elegance and disinterest covered his features once again, eyelids low and chin raised high. Poised, arrogant, bored. Damian Wayne-al Ghul was back. 

“Forgive this scene of idiocy, mother.” He paused, casting a poisonous glance up and down her emerald dress. “A liar would say it is good to see you again, and while you took care to teach me how to excel in that matter, I will not use the gifts you so generously forced on me.”

He could have as well struck her in the face. To anyone entering the room at that moment, it seemed he had. 

“Damian, dear…”

He stopped her momentum by raising a hand, eyes jerking to a broad figure behind her who could only be Bruce. 

“Father. It appears I am not the only one to indulge in ill-fated ideas. I would appreciate to be informed ahead if this is a joke of yours,” he spat, straightening his silver cufflinks.

Time had taken its toll on the Bat, yet the way his massive shoulders and table-sized fists clenched would have intimidated more than one. A muscle jumped in his emaciated cheek, pulling on the fine lines cornering his ice-cold eyes. Even Jason sat straighter. As long as they stayed unnoticed, Stephanie and Cassandra quietly fled the storm.

“You will speak more respectfully or leave this house,” Bruce growled, Batman bleeding into his tone.

“You will act more responsibly, or fear that I will.”

“Now, now,” intervened Talia, uselessly trying to defuse the tension. “Let us not fight, Damian you have to listen-”

“As a matter of fact, Talia, I don’t.”

“Out!” Bruce yelled, pointing the door with his extended finger, eyes like the barrel of a gun.

“Fuck you both,” Damian hissed, spitting on the thick carpet. “I will find out what’s your plan this time Talia, and I will stop it.”

Giving his parents a gloved finger, the youngest Wayne walked out with the poise of a prince and the attitude of a gangster. Jason tentatively got up to follow him, reluctantly glad to see Talia extend her arm across Bruce’s chest to keep him from physically fighting his son. A large smile stretched Jason’s lips when he finally found Damian in the gardens, hunched on himself from the cold and the anger, an unlit cigarette plucked behind his ear. He paced like a tiger in a cage, his leather shoes ruined by the melting snow. There was an obviously recent crack in one of the columns. 

“That was fucking amazing bro, you’re officially my favorite Robin of all.”

“I am no longer a Robin,” Damian responded, dripping with directionless anger and frustration. “Not sure I count as your brother either anymore.”

Hands buried as deep as possible in the pockets of the leather jacket he hastily threw over his tuxedo, Jason simply shrugged. He hadn’t known about that, but could have easily guessed. Damian would never be out of shape, not with his education, but he didn’t look as thin and dry as the rest of them. Didn’t look like a marathon runner, or a bodybuilder. And there was the obvious rebellion of studying art instead of business, or political science. Jason hadn’t been exaggerating when he said he had a new favorite.

“How can I sleep under the same roof as that viper and that asshole?!” Damian muttered, resuming to his pacing. “They will most probably murder all of us in our sleep, or she will find a way to hypnotize or poison us.” 

A thick cloud escaped from Jason’s lips as he spoke, his lips feeling dry and cracked already.

“I wasn’t planning on staying, wanna come with me?” 

Among the dark blue shadows, Damian’s darker silhouette stilled. One could have expected his sharp almond eyes to glow with the stray lights from the manor, just like a cat’s. Blending with the night, there was something eerily unhuman about his silence.

“I mean,” Jason added, feeling flustered for a reason he couldn’t explain. “I have a couch you can sleep on, it shouldn’t be too busted… It won’t be silk sheets and feathered pillows but I make a mean coffee.”

“I am… surprised you would make such an offer. But I am willing to take it, Todd. Thank you.”

He elegantly bowed his head, polite and formal, yet genuine. A true demonstration of gratitude, as precious as Damian’s elusive smiles. Jason kept a warmth in his chest as he ignited the engine, which had nothing to do with the heater of the car. Something rare. Potentially lethal. 

Two men in suits walking like thugs after midnight is a sight most Gothamites avoided like the plague. Thankfully for them, these two knew how to slip away from sight and meant them no harm. Once the door closed behind Damian, the mask crumbled to reveal a very young, very tired man. 

“Go take a shower, I’ll prepare the couch for you,” said Jason, daring to guide him by his shoulder towards the bathroom.

A few seconds later, the water was running with a cacophony of rarely used pipes. The air in the safehouse was thick with abandon and dust, which he took care of as best as he could. Armed with cleaning products, the enterprise took longer than planned. He was still on his knees trying to get the fridge to work again when Damian slowly walked behind him, observing. His eyes traced Jason’s tensed thighs, the thin lines of his waist, the width of his shoulders. With only a towel around his own hips, mist still condensating from his tan skin, he watched as long as he could without getting caught. Searching. 

Jason’s shirt finally rode up, revealing the lower end of his back and the dimples he had there. Most importantly, it revealed the constellation of his soulmark, a dozen pale dots in random order. A drop of water rolled along the skin of Damian’s arm, on the band of ink forever alienating him from finding his One. Bitter jealousy coursed through his veins. A small sense of relief soothed it when Jason banged his head against a shelf.

“Yeah yeah laugh all you want-” He stopped right in his tracks.

Damian raised an eyebrow, trying to decipher his expression. Jason’s eyes ran from one tattoo to another, taking in the patterns Damian designed and had friends prick under his skin. The eagle, formed of a Persian poem he particularly enjoyed, the watercolor desert flowers stemming from his left hip, the abstract shapes and other artworks he used to reclaim himself from the past. A desperate attempt at winning over the censorship inked over his forearm against his will. 

There was an emotion in Jason’s eye he did not care to interpret. Maybe the older man would disapprove, like the rest of the family had. Or perhaps the difficult son had some art of his own embedded in his skin. Damian refused to pay attention to what he might think of it. A little self-conscious still, he affected nonchalance as he crossed his arms, feeling the small black beads of his nipple piercings against his arm. Jason looked about to say something when a loud ‘clonk’ echoed behind him, preceding a leak of some viscous liquid under the fridge. 

To avoid the swearing and the yelling, Damian diplomatically retreated to the other room, where he changed into his pajamas. Then arose another issue.

“I am most certainly not sleeping on that thing.”

“Sleep on the damn floor for all I care,” Jason answered, washing the grime off his hands after an intense battle with the fridge.

“I may care for animals, but I am not one to enjoy the company of roaches.”

“It’s downtown Gotham, what did you expect exactly?”

“Give me your bed.”

“Fuck you.”

“You are aware I can and will fight you on this issue,” Damian snarled.

“Look.” A sigh. “It’s already 3AM, I’m tired and I need a shower so let’s just share tonight. The mattress should be wide enough.”

Some heat crawled up to Damian’s chest, prompting him to cross his arms once again. Sharing beds with friends was usual among college students. As a kid, he had slept next to Dick like a kitten against its mother enough times not to find embarrassment in that configuration. Yet, Jason had grown to be practically a stranger over the years. Though, he was also known for throwing rapists off roofs and hunting down sexual abusers who were then never seen again, so it wasn’t that kind of worry either. Jason, and his Wonder Woman pajama shorts, was a whole other kind of menace.

*** 

Wayne Manor. A little over two centuries old mansion with insulation issues in the West wing, a plethora of empty rooms accumulating dust and a deserted kitchen. No heart anymore, but a restless underbelly filled with bats. A small lamp struggled to ward off the shadows in a room on the last floor of the East wing, on the most extreme end of the immense building. Sat near the door, back turned to the uncharacteristically small bed which happened to be Bruce Wayne’s, Talia removed her earrings with slow, studied care. Holding a tight vice over her stomach, a sense of anxiety urged her not to leave her back exposed to the man in the room. 

In her mirror, his shape, too sharp to leave room to curves, drank the light like a human-sized black hole. Each year less Bruce, and more Bat. She caught herself looking for cones on in the midst of his hair. Glinting incongruously on this faceless man, the silver edge of reading glasses was his only visible concession to time. 

“Who does he think he is,” grumbled Bruce for a sixth, or seventh time. 

“His teenage years were fairly calm, compared to the records of his foster brothers. We should have expected a form of rebellion at some point.”

“The way he dared to speak to you!”

“Damian holds me responsible for a great many things. I am, for the most part. He cannot be blamed for resenting-”

“I raised him better than that!”

“Did you really?” Talia asked, allowing some ice to slither in her voice. 

The shadow-bat squared his shoulder a bit more, elbows appearing like lethal points at his sides. Turning around slowly, she met his challenge with an elegance he severely lacked. Unused to such calm brand of intimidation, at least in his very bedroom, Bruce sat back. His eyes were still shrouded with anger.

“Damian can be given credit,” she started, dagger-sharp nails in plain sight on her lap, shining about as much as her wedding band. “He managed the feat of finding a third way between our two extremes. He neither became the next Alexander, not the next Batman.”

“He became a rude brat-”

“How hypocritical do we have to be to resent him about parental issues-”

“Talia.” Voice rasping like it did out in the night, Bruce made sure she got his warning not to push that line of though further. 

“What I am trying to tell you, Bruce, is that he does not trust us. It is our mission, as parents, to earn that trust once again. If we -if I- ever had it at all.”

Silence fell on the room like the thick coat of snow still falling behind the curtains. Judging her soon-to-be husband had nothing else to add, Talia took a simple wooden brush to discipline the silky locks of her hair. Slightly darker than argan kernels, it ran in long rivulets on her shoulders, another show of power. Giving enemies the possibility to grab any part of her could very much be the end of her life, yet it was a display she kept proudly. 

“How are we supposed to gain his trust again…” Bruce whispered, more to himself than anything. 

“How did you get Jason back?” she asked in return, rising up and walking to him, to put her hand on his nape in a gesture she hoped would be reassuring.

“Hell if I know.” Temple resting against her flank, he closed his eyes.

He could have very well put a blade through her like this, yet didn’t. A better man than many of those she allowed to be this close. Carding her hand through his hair, face as still as a mask, Talia felt an old pain wake up in her chest. A scar which would never really heal properly, a child she failed. A child she lost. A child no longer hers. 

No longer a child either.

A queasy ache shaking her intestines, Talia pressed herself against Bruce, if only for the warmth. Men had few uses she knew of, but it was one of their undeniable advantages. His hair was soft under her palm, cropped short like a military man, but thin like a cat’s fur. She traced the thin silvery rivers. 

“Let’s go to sleep, beloved.”

Not twenty minutes later, Talia jumped out of bed. Rushing for a vase, she fell to her knees and heaved heavily, involuntary tears running down her cheeks. Bruce did not dare to touch her. In her state, there was a very high possibility she’d stab him, even out of instinct. 

“Hold my hair, _hemar!_” she roared, springing him into action. 

“Are you alright?” he dared once she stopped to breathe heavily above the vase.

Her skin was clammy and her eyes lined with dark circles, but the look she threw him would have slain a lesser man.

“Do I look fucking-” she stopped to retch thin strings of bile. 

With her hair in his hand, Bruce could see the patch of pitch-black ink at the base of her skull. 

***

Damian woke up with the metaphorical birds several hours later. At the other end of the city, far away from his childhood home, shaken up by a train passing a hand’s reach from the window. The whole building jittered for a minute, plates and cutlery clinking loudly in the kitchen, books falling down from their piles. Throughout the commotion, Jason remained sound asleep next to him. Head buried in a pillow, broad shoulders displayed to the world, he kept breathing evenly, untroubled. 

Blocky neon numbers indicating 5 AM informed Damian that he had gotten perhaps two to three hours of sleep. He fell back heavily on the thin, worn-out mattress. His nose didn’t seem yet used to the mildewy scent of the sheets. Curling up against the cold, he wondered if Jason would resent him for seeking heat against his body. Dick didn’t mind, but Damian remembered a time when he was younger and the Red Hood barely tolerated anyone looking at him in the eyes. Plastering himself against his back, he took that risk in the name of not becoming Mr. Freeze’s heir. 

Arms crossed on his own torso, Damian wiggled until he found the most perfect position. Since Jason hadn’t awaken from all the noise and tremble earlier, he wouldn’t be bothered by it. One has to appreciate the fact that men of impressive corpulence tend to have a higher body temperature than men with a thin, gracious frame. Bothered with finding the most optimal position to enjoy all that heat, Damian didn’t realise Jason’s shirt had ran up until his forearm brushed it. It had been years since the last time he had felt so relaxed, his limbs sinking in the mattress and his eyelids closing on their own. He didn’t even notice the second train.

He woke up definitively around 10am, dressed, went jogging, ate breakfast, took a shower, checked his social media. All the while, no word from Jason. After spending a frustrating early afternoon struggling with a late assignment, curiosity pushed him to check the bedroom. It smelled as expected, like sweat and dust. Another train shook the place, but Jason’s form stayed still under the blankets. 

“Are you awake? Grayson just texted me, asking if we would enjoy having dinner with him tonight.”

“I’m tired,” Jason slurred in a low, apathetic voice. “Go if you want.”

Shifting his weight from foot to foot, Damian stood in the doorway. 

“You haven’t eaten a thing all day… Are you going to get out of bed at all?” he said in haughty voice, to force Jason to react.

The pile of blankets shrugged and rolled on itself further. Damian felt guilt settle in his stomach, and let out a frustrated sigh. After a few minutes of rummaging through the bathroom and some hidden cupboards, he finally found what he was looking for. Coming back to sit where he imagined Jason’s face would be, he placed a glass of water and two orange tubes next to the mattress. 

“Take your meds at least, you’re a mess.”

“How…?” asked Jason, voice muffled by the duvet.

“I’ve gone through the same struggle, akhi.” He tentatively patted the mount of duvets. “Get strong soon, we have a wedding to crash.”

Finding himself bored after a handful of minutes, Damian set his mind to make the place liveable again. A quick trip to the hardware store with Jason’s bike later, he had covered nearly every surface in plastic sheets. Painting occupied him for a while. He fixed the sink in the bathroom. Repaired the leak in the fridge. Worked on the light switches. Installed new door handles. Bought new furniture, built it, even arranged a few tasteful succulents under the wall-mounted TV. At 1pm, laying on the new couch, Damian was still looking for something to bother himself with. 

A hundred plans whirled in his mind, none of which he could fully grasp before it was jammed aside by random ideas. It was like trying to catch wild horse with a fishing pole. Simultaneously tired and restless, he got up to perpetuate the age-old sibling tradition of bothering one’s brother when one is even remotely bored. 

“Hey dumbass, I need a broom.”

“Take the bike if you want to ride something,” Jason groaned, looking at the bowl of oatmeal Damian had brought him with great offense.

“If I wanted to ride something, I would have gone to the nearest bar,” he answered without a pause.

Oats flew all over the bed as Jason choked on his spoon. 

“Tt. Having gone through both of my parent’s teachings, I would have expected you to pick up proper table manners. What would Alfred think.”

“Bitch.”

Not missing a beat, Damian handed him a ‘revert’ Uno card. Had he not already been wiping stary oats from his chin, Jason would have spat again. Damian smirked, getting up to go through his host’s clothes. Having found something resembling formal pants and a heavy leather jacket, he casually strolled out, ignoring Jason’s protests against stealing his stuff. He was gone when the older man found it in himself to rise up from his mattress, feeling like the lowest of the lows. His hair was greasy, and it grated on his nerves enough to counterbalance the bone-deep exhaustion. 

The apartment was unrecognizable. 

“The fuck did you do with the place?” he called, knocking at the bathroom door, which was now blue for some reason. 

“Was bored.”

“I will murder you in your sleep!”

The door opened, letting a damp head go through. “You can try, bitch.” The door closed. 

No matter how much Jason yelled, the little brat took his time with the shower, leaving him gross and greasy. He was about to pick the lock or possibly dropkick the door, when Damian emerged. Hair slicked back, thick eyeliner, golden eyeshadow and highlighter. And Jason’s clothes, though he was too baffled to comment on it. 

“Are those Louboutin?!” he managed to call out, as the younger man gracefully got out of the safehouse through the window.

“Of course.” Damian rolled his eyes. “I am not a peasant.”

With that, he was gone. Jason went back to sleep.

***

Something pressed against Jason’s chest, not heavy enough to be bothering, but still noticeable. Another kept his legs from folding how he wanted them to, making the temperature under the sheets rise to uncomfortable levels. There was also a soft, tickling plume brushing his nose rhythmically, which ended up making him sneeze. Three large angora cats scattered away as he sat up, though the one next to his knees barely cracked an eye open. No sight of Damian. 

He found the younger man in his kitchen, sat on the counter in loose jogging clothes he recognized as his own. Milky light crept in the room from the windows, gray and bleak, yet there was a childlike joyfulness in the room only infamous cat lady Selina Kyle knew how to summon.

“Hello-” He craned his neck to read the names written on the coffee cups they held. “-Chantelle and Lakelyn.”

“There’s one for you too,” she smiled, pointing at the third cup sitting on the table. “We left you the least sugary one.”

“You’re an angel, Sel,” he grinned, drinking a good mouthful of the awfully sweet mixture. “God that’s disgusting. Steal from salarymen next time, please.”

“Will do.”

Jason smiled to himself, watching how both Selina, Damian and most of the cats stayed in the direct vicinity of the heater. With his hair matted on one side, pillow marks on his face and his shirt eating up most of his silhouette, the youngest bat looked once again like the kid they had come to accept in their lives. His tattooed hand caressed a minuscule kitten curled up in his lap, which looked like it couldn’t be happier. Selina cast Jason a knowing smirk. They battled with their eyes for a while, Damian staying none the wiser as his attention was monopolized by the many felines surrounding him.

“So, Selina, what do we owe you the pleasure?”

“Well, we have a wedding to crash don’t we?” she said casually, as if it was all done and agreed already.

“I took the liberty of calling for trustworthy allies,” Damian explained. “Miss Quinn and Mr. Dent should join us later today.”

“Damian.” Jason pinched the bridge of his nose. “You can’t bring in villains to ruin your parents’ wedding. No offense Sel. You don’t even know if Talia really has an agenda.”

“She does. I am certain of that fact. She would never take such an obligation, never swear an oath without expected gains. Besides, you’re either with me, or against me.”

His gaze was no less intense than it had been a little over a decade ago when he had tried to kill Jason for being an alleged traitor to the cause. It seemed he would never grow to appreciate the wisdom found in half-measures, tact, or that strange and alien ritual of ‘talking to each other’. Weighting pros and cons was easy, in this case. Either he was with him and able to do damage control, or he was against him and would suffer the demon brat’s wrath. 

“Join me, Todd, and you shall be offered the entire cake as a reward,” said Damian in the most serious tone, though he was probably joking. 

“Alright you got me,” he sighed, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “What’s the plan, Dames?”

When Damian finished talking him through it, Jason felt the need to drink the rest of his sugary monstrosity. He would most certainly need the temporary energy. First of all, Harley Quinn was in his safehouse giving him feng-shui advice which, while needed and shockingly relevant, didn’t mean he was any more reassured to have Harley Quinn in his safehouse. A sharply-dressed Harvey Dent also gave his occasional piece of advice, which made Jason check for drugs in his cup. Regal even in his sweatpants and Iron Maiden tee, Damian sipped tea as he would have with the Queen of England, unperturbed. 

“Okay- let’s say I hypothetically know someone,” he started, ignoring how Quinn and Dent were arguing about the ‘in-ness’ of the color ‘taupe’ on cupboard doors. “If they really are soulmates and in love, we’ll be the biggest assholes of the universe and beyond.”

“A responsibility I am willing to take.” Damian moistened his lips with his tongue. “Name a price for your participation, one high enough to make you forget about possibly damaging your unmendable reputation.”

Jason could have given his true answer, and stopped this mess at once. Asking for the impossible was however one way for Damian to find out impossibility is relative, or in this case absolutely illusional. A disagreeable spark ran up his spine, rooted from his tailbone. His twitch must have been visible, as the other man mirrored it instinctively. Jason wanted to walk to the counter and shake him, and tell him the truth. 

“I want your bike,” he said instead. 

“Which I no longer possess.”

That maybe broke his heart even deeper.

“How can you be so heartless and give her up?” he all but cried.

“Practice.” Damian drank up the last of his cup, and set it aside to walk right into Jason’s space. At least a head shorter, he had to look up to talk but didn’t seem bothered by it. A habit, probably. “_Anything_ I can give, I will,” he said in a confusingly deep voice which hinted at things Jason was not yet ready to deal with. 

“You’re playing with fire here, I hope you know that,” Jason answered in an equally deep voice, forgetting their audience for a moment. He was not one to back up from a challenge, but that wasn’t what Damian was offering. There was no mistaking what was at stake. “No,” he said, refusing to take the bait. “I will help you for free, but on my terms.”

Both of them took a step back, an attempt to clear up the heaviness in the air. Unable to read Damian’s face, he continued.

“If we can prove they are soulmates, we let them marry in peace. Same if they aren’t, but their love is genuine. When I tell you not to do something, you don’t. At this point it should be common sense, but it doesn’t look like you listen to anyone these days. Finally, you have to dance with people if we come that far, it’ll do you good to socialize.”

“Is that all?” Damian asked, cool and detached.

“Wow jeez Dami-dames, look at you playin’ all grown-up,” Harley intervened with a loud giggle, fanning herself with her hand. “Almost got me to reconsider being interested in men here! Isn’t that right Harvling?”

“You sound like your father,” the older man in the suit simply said, no trace of mockery in his voice. “Although I do agree with Mr. Todd, I owe too much of my recovery to Bruce to be unnecessarily cruel to him. Even if he did me enough wrong to deserve at least a little mayhem as well.”

“For the record,” Selina yawned. “I think Talia would be far better with someone like me than that monolithic shadow of a man. I’m down to marry her if he doesn’t.”

Only dogs should have been able to hear the high-pitched squeal Harley produced. Both women high-fived with matching grins, already planning the second wedding. Face still as impenetrable as a frozen lake, Damian retreated to the bedroom. Jason didn’t follow him. 

***

Sergeant Grayson was a simple man, a family man, a man who had attended and helped plan many weddings. Some colleagues would mock him, call him all sorts of slurs, but being who he was, he didn’t care in the slightest. Well, if he could find tangible evidence said bullies were dirty, it couldn’t hurt anyone either. 

However, throwing a bachelorette party for none other than ex(?)-assassin, wannabe world dominator and cold-blooded manipulator Talia al Ghul was not something he considered himself prepared for. When asked if she had friends, Talia had laughed aloud then asked him what kind of woman he thought she was. Seeing he hadn’t intended to insult or joke at her, she had grown quiet and, if dared to say, depressed. His guest list was composed of Cassandra, who admitted she only trusted Talia’s choice of luxury foods, and Duke who didn’t really have a choice. Not even Dick himself was to be there, having already been requested to be Bruce’s guest.

His father was not better. After first denying a second stag party was necessary after the first one (never to be talked about again), Bruce had reluctantly accepted on the condition that they would place a high-alert security level to avoid both Selina (understandably), and Harvey Dent (did something kinky happen between those two?). Dick had then gone to hell and back to summon at least Clark, and an exhausted-looking John Constantine who claimed he would never come only to enjoy the free food. Then Kate had insisted to come, if only to ‘ward off all the pretty ladies’ from her cousin.

At 11:23, Dick received a text message. “Grayson, I request your presence”. First wondering why Damian would need him, he then saw Talia had sent it. It had actually been a pleasant evening, John and Kate having bonded almost immediately in spite of all expectations. As civil as his father could be these days, Bruce wasn’t one to make or keep friends. If not for Clark’s indestructible loyalty, it would have been hard to bring anyone he called that. Except for Dick himself, who now had to leave.

Spending an entire evening with his gloomy future mother-in-law was one of the worst thing he ever had to do for family, dying included. He heard both Cass and Duke had fallen sick with an unnatural synchronicity, which had his professional instincts kick in. Either it was a coincidence, or they had wanted to avoid her… or someone was working against this wedding. 

It was his duty to discover the truth, and to make sure no evil forces would keep Bruce from happiness.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the furthest I've ever taken Damian's characterization and I'm pretty satisfied with it. He's probably a bit different from what you'd expect, and I hope it will surprise you in a good way. I really wanted him to be a complex adult with a personality similar to how he was as a child, but with experience and maturity on his side. I also liked the idea of having him develop a fashion style of his own, and to include more of his mixed heritage. 
> 
> I've worked on Jason as well to make him a man with less edge, who managed to heal by putting most of his past behind, including the ties he had to his family. Being forced back home like that is a threat to this healing process, seing how they didn't change the way he did. 
> 
> To be clear, they have a big age difference (a little under 10 years) and while they're both adults they've known each other for a long time. It's crucial for them to have been separated the way they were, otherwise I wouldn't have written a romance for them.
> 
> It's a story about growth and finding love.


End file.
